


freefall

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Anxiety, Autism, Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Neighbors, Stimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Strife turns up on her doorstep at seven in the morning on Saturday, Lomadia is less than pleased. She’d been planning on sleeping in, but instead there’s an insistent knocking at her front door, and a distinctly upset-looking solutionist outside.</p><p>“Um. Um.” Lomadia’s eyes flick to the way Strife’s shoulders are hunched, the clench of one hand at his side with nails digging into his palm and the other drumming a complex rhythm with his fingertips against his thigh. “Do you- I need- could I borrow some coffee? If you have some, I mean, and obviously I’d pay you back, I’m not asking for it for free, I wouldn’t presume to-”</p><p>(A handful of drabbles about autistic Strife.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	freefall

**Author's Note:**

> so i've got nine hundred other fics i should be finishing and instead i wrote stuff about autistic Strife because reasons. and because it's the best and most important headcanon. fight me on this one.
> 
>  **warnings** for mentions of self-harm in the context of blood magic, and for descriptions of anxiety-related behaviours

When Strife turns up on her doorstep at seven in the morning on Saturday, Lomadia is less than pleased. She’d been planning on sleeping in, but instead there’s an insistent knocking at her front door, and a distinctly upset-looking solutionist outside.

“Um. Um.” Lomadia’s eyes flick to the way Strife’s shoulders are hunched, the clench of one hand at his side with nails digging into his palm and the other drumming a complex rhythm with his fingertips against his thigh. “Do you- I need- could I borrow some coffee? If you have some, I mean, and obviously I’d pay you back, I’m not asking for it for free, I wouldn’t presume to-”

Lomadia sighs, and drags a hand through her hair. “Give me a mo,” she says, holding up a hand to quiet him, and disappears back into the house.

The kitchen’s a mess, like the rest of the house, but their jar of coffee sits easily visible on the end of the work surface, in pride of place. For a second, she considers trying to find another container to decant some of it into – but then she looks at all the dirty bowls and cups, at the endless pots and pans filled with witchery ingredients and food and bits and pieces, and gives up. Grabbing the whole jar, she heads back to the front door.

“Don’t worry about paying us back,” Lomadia says, quietly, half-smile tinged with sleep. She pushes the jar of coffee against his chest, notices the way he takes it carefully to avoid touching her fingers and hand. “Keep it. Early Christmas present for you.”

“Thank you, _thank you_. You’re a lifesaver. It’s just-” says Strife, and then catches himself a little. “I always have coffee in the morning. Always.” There’s a faintly helpless tone to his voice, like he’s lost, desperately trying to keep his head above water and not quite managing it. He’s still drumming a rhythm against his thigh. “Thank you.”

-

“How do you know so much about blood magic?” asks Parvis, one day, bent over his altar and trailing fingertips through the blood at the heart of it. It’s not the first time he’s asked the question, and it likely won’t be the last – he never gets a satisfactory answer, but he gets a little more each time he pushes.

So he keeps on pushing.

“I was… curious, when I was younger,” says Strife reluctantly, bites back words like _obsession_ and _special interest_. “It was a mistake.” There’s a reason he doesn’t like talking about college, and that reason is the thin, green-tinged scars that line the soft insides of his upper arms, carefully hidden by the crimson shirts he always wears.

He doesn’t bother to say that _Parvis_ is making a mistake, but he thinks the blood mage hears it anyway, because he sniffs in a slightly offended way. “Well, it’s not a mistake for me,” Parvis says, grinning, bouncing a little as he runs reverent fingers around the rim of his blood altar, staring at the crimson liquid roiling within it. “Look how powerful I am!”

-

“Strife?” asks Kirin, slightly concerned. “Is everything okay?”

Drawing in a deep breath, and then another, Strife nods. “Um,” he says, when he opens his mouth to try and explain that sometimes his words get stuck, his mind goes in circles, the sentences he can find the _concept_ of so easily refusing to string together into anything that he can choke out of his throat. “Um, um. Um. Um. Um-”

He cuts himself off, takes another deep breath and closes his eyes to try and centre himself. At his sides, he can feel his fingers start to twitch, and grinds his teeth as he starts to twist his hand back and forth, fingers spread, the action fast enough it’s almost a vibration.

“Take all the time you need,” says Kirin, quietly, from somewhere a safe distance away. There’s the faint rustle of robes that Strife assumes is Kirin sitting down, maybe perching on the edge of a crafting table, and then silence.

He’s grateful for that.

Eyes still shut, Strife focuses on his breathing, lets the simple back-and-forth motion of his hands comfort him. He pushes the embarrassment, the humiliation of Kirin seeing him like this – because he knows from experience that will only make calming himself down harder – to one side, and just inhales and exhales, slowly, counting the pattern of it and letting the numbers slip easily through his mind.

Finally, _finally_ , the words coming rushing back. “...Sorry about that,” he manages, exhaling and opening his eyes. His hands settle back to his sides, quiet again, and he curls his hands into fists.  
“Nothing to apologise for,” says Kirin, quietly – and when Strife darts a glance at him, he’s still sat down, still carefully not trying to meet Strife’s eyes.

When Strife exhales again, grounding himself, it’s a breath of relief and quiet gratitude.

-

“Aww, thanks, man,” says Nilesy, exhaling pure relief when Strife finally sets the wrench down, hits the side of the crusher, and it rumbles to life with a cough of smoke. “Lom’d have had my head if I’d broken that for good. You’ve saved my bacon here.”

Coughing a little and straightening his tie to try and hide his awkwardness at the gratitude, Strife doesn’t quite meet Nilesy’s eyes. “Well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “I mean- you’re paying me for it, it’s hardly a favour-”

Strife looks up just in time to notice the way Nilesy’s arms are outstretched, the way Nilesy’s angling towards him. The way he flinches from it is entirely involuntary, the step back and the hunch of his shoulders and equally automatic reaction, and it’s only when he realises what he’s done that he feels his cheeks flush a little. “Ah- I’m-” he says, swallowing hard and struggling for an explanation.

“Hugs aren’t your thing, I get it.” Nilesy shrugs, looking unconcerned but faintly apologetic. “That’s cool! Sorry. Can I get a high-five, though? Or even a handshake, because you don’t really look like the kind of guy that does high-fives. No offence or anything.”

“A handshake,” agrees Strife, clawing back a little of his shattered composure and trying to salvage his dignity. “That’s… acceptable.” He holds out his hand, grips Nilesy’s firmly, and shakes it. The warmth and feel of skin against his still makes his hand itch a little, makes it feel like something’s crawled inside his bones, but it’s better than a hug. So much better.

And really, the grin on Nilesy’s face when he lets go – like Strife’s just offered him something precious and important, like that single handshake is something he’s going to value for the rest of the day – makes the discomfort worth it.


End file.
